


Singe

by HannahLydia



Series: Kinktober '18 [8]
Category: Borderlands (Video Games)
Genre: Atlas CEO Rhys, Branding, Kinktober, Light Masochism, Light Sadism, M/M, Pain, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-21
Updated: 2018-10-21
Packaged: 2019-08-05 14:48:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,121
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16369670
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HannahLydia/pseuds/HannahLydia
Summary: The idea of beingbrandedshould have been degrading, and yet there was something intoxicating about the thought of being ‘owned’ by Jack. Something to do with being claimed - marked beneath his fancy black suit so that he could put up a front day-by-day of being his own man, his own person, and not at all on Handsome Jack’s leash. Maybe that was why he had agreed to it? Like it was some kind of commitment, some way of cementing their relationship, a fucked-up way of saying ‘see this? I’mhis’ .Written for the 'branding' prompt for Kinktober.





	Singe

**Author's Note:**

> I'm more than a little bit behind with Kinktober - I have a lot of WIPs and nigh-on finished drabbles that I have yet to post for the various days and prompts thus far, hopefully I'll get around to sharing those before the end of the month. c:

“ _Jus’ a lil sting, princess, that’s all it is_ ,”

Rhys didn’t look so sure. He regarded the branding iron in Jack’s hand with a mixture of discomfort and unease, but, bizarrely, no fear.

It wasn’t exactly matching tattoos or anything, and he was pretty sure he’d feel like a piece of meat at the end of it, but somehow he had _agreed_ to this.   
Was he insane? Had he become _that_ masochistic during their time together?   
He supposed anyone in a relationship with Handsome Jack would become more than a little bit addicted to pain by the end of it, but to willingly go along with being marked like a possession and suffer through it? That was on a whole new level of crazy.

Rhys would have preferred to blame his decision-making process on alcohol, but he’d been sober when he’d agreed to this. Now he was on his third glass of whisky - a drink he would never have selected of his own accord - to try and prepare himself for the stupid amount of pain he had agreed to take.

The idea of being _branded_ should have been degrading, and yet there was something intoxicating about the thought of being ‘owned’ by Jack. Something to do with being claimed - marked beneath his fancy black suit so that he could put up a front day-by-day of being his own man, his own person, and not at all on Handsome Jack’s leash. Maybe that was why he had agreed to it? Like it was some kind of commitment, some way of cementing their relationship, a fucked-up way of saying ‘see this? I’m _his’_. Maybe it was also something to do with Jack’s own scar, and wanting to taste some of the pain he might have felt the night his face had been irreversibly damaged. Whatever the reason, Rhys was nevertheless a man who was willing to put his body through all kinds of modification. Cybernetic enhancement was nothing compared to a little scarification, right?

The iron was burning red-hot, and he could feel the heat coming off of it from here. At this distance his brain equated it to a soft, pleasurable warmth like that of the summer sun, and not a potential threat. He hadn’t quite processed it yet, no matter how ominous it looked.

Hesitating, Rhys glanced down at his naked body and indicated to the inked area of his chest, raising his eyebrows at Jack in silent question. _Here?_

The older man rolled his eyes emphatically. “... Right. If you want a sting _and_ a heart attack. God, head of his frickin’ class, this one,”   
“You’re not telling me people don’t get their pecs branded,”

“Rhysie, you’re a frickin’ noodle. That featherweight body o’ yours will go into freakin’ shock, and _hilarious as that would be--_ I’m kinda fond of that ass of yours,”

“... Can you just get it over with?”

Jack had begun looking at him with such condescension, as if he were talking to an ignorant child. He gestured vaguely at him with his free hand. “Yeah, well, you’re gonna want t’ frickin’ bite down on somethin’, cupcake,”

“I can handle it,”

“ _Doubt that_ ,”

 _Fine.  
_ Knowing when to back down, Rhys rolled his eyes back at him. He grabbed the nearest thing to hand, which happened to be one of the smaller leather belts that made up Jack’s leg-holster rig. He held it up, presenting it with attitude, before slotting the leather into his mouth. As soon as his teeth had closed down tight upon the belt, Jack stepped forwards like a fencer with a sabre, and then drove the iron down on the inside of Rhys’ naked hip.

The pain was excruciating.

Rhys screamed in his throat, biting down on the leather so hard that he could taste it even over the smell-flavour that filled his nose and mouth, all burning flesh and smoke. The iron’s proximity to his groin was too much, he felt for a moment like his balls were about to explode.  
Though the brand remained pressed flat to his flesh for mere seconds, it felt like long, arduous minutes. When Jack was finally satisfied that the initials had set into Rhys’ flesh, he pulled back the iron and dumped it into the bucket of water beside him.

Rhys was reeling, on the cusp of blacking out from the pain in spite of the liquid courage he had consumed. The _HJ_ stood out on his inner hip, the seared flesh charred and yellow-brown in places, ash-black in others, the skin puckering around the cauterised wound. It was not the dark birthmark-pink of a healed scar, nor was it raised yet, but scorched in and ugly.

While Rhys writhed, hips bucking, Jack’s eyes never left him, feeling the blood rushing to his crotch at the sight of his boyfriend struggling in agony.     
“There ya go, kiddo…” Jack encouraged, his tone both hungry and _welcoming_ , as if Rhys had completed an initiation of some kind. “How ‘bout that? Looks like you belong to me now,”

Rhys’ screams became grating sobs, and it was then that Jack finally took pity on him. He retrieved the Anshin vial that would counteract the pain and administered it with little bedside manner, roughly looping an arm under him and propping him up. The regenerative medicine soon began pumping through Rhys’ body and his thrashing started to cease, the sobs dying in his throat.

After minutes of nothing more than laboured breathing and moaning, Rhys finally spit the leather from between his teeth, looked down at the initials singed into his flesh and cursed. That was it? Those two letters burnt into his skin, scabbing already, unattractive if not off-putting-- all that pain for  _that_? 

“You-- You know what, Jack?” He began raggedly, barely able to raise a hand to his face. “The next time I agree to another one of your bat-shit crazy ideas, just-- just slap me. Okay?”

Jack grinned at him, the hand that wasn't propping Rhys up beginning to curl around himself. “Oh, kiddo, come on. You _love this_ ,” He said with emphasis, giving himself a few strokes for good measure. “Besides, you’re freakin’ mine now. Y’got the damn seal to prove it,”

 _Mine now._ Those possessive words reverberated in Rhys’ mind, a reward unto themselves.

His wound was no longer burning. The Anshin had worked it’s magic, and the area was numb, the colour beginning to look much less alarming. His mind was foggy with relief now, doped up as if on a high amount of morphine, so that when he looked at Jack he smiled back at him almost drunkenly.

“Yeah, well,” Rhys said, flopping tiredly against him. “I could stand to hear it more often,”

 


End file.
